Kidnap
by ScribbleDream
Summary: No pairing. Kidnapping. It's not just for kids anymore. A story complete with much rantings and ravings of John Munch.
1. Silence

Title: Kidnap  
Author: ScribbleDream  
Disclaimer: They aren't mine and it has taken me months of therapy to be able to admit that.  
Summary:No pairing."Kidnapping. It's not just for kids anymore." A story complete with much rantings and ravings of John Munch.  
Rating: T  
Author's Note: Just please review constructively. It helps a lot! I've had this story written for a while, but I just decided to post it. Hope you like!  
Love,  
Scribs

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_Chapter One: Silence_

John Munch woke up. Well, he wasn't exactly sure if he had really woken up. He opened his eyes, though, he knew that much. As for waking up, it was hard to tell. His external senses were definitely working, but other than that, he still felt like he was in a dream. He didn't remember falling asleep in this room, this dark, dusty, stone room. It seemed like a basement, he realized. The windows were high and didn't provide much light, and there were pipes along the walls, as well as a really noisy furnace that was giving him a headache.

No, it wasn't the furnace that was giving him the headache, he decided. He already had the headache, the furnace was just making it worse. And it wasn't really that noisy, but his headache amplified any noise. He reach his arm up to touch the top of his head and felt a bump. Yep, head injury. Figured. Now, where the hell was he?

He searched his jacket pockets for his cell phone, his gun, his wallet, anything, but all the pockets were emptied. Even his pants pockets, although he usually only carried change in there. He groaned and rested his head on the wall behind him and searched the room for some evidence of where he was.

As he looked around, he realized something was wrong with his vision. He reached to his eyes and discovered the problem: his glasses were gone. No wonder everything seemed blurry and dream-like.

Munch began to crawl around the room searching for them. _This is dignified_, he thought sardonically, but still searched. He wondered where he was, who had brought him here, and how he had gotten the bump on his head, but the first thing was first. He could figure out a lot more if he could see, that was for sure.

His hand finally came to rest on something cold, thin, and metal. He lifted his glasses up to his face, noting that there was a large crack in one of the lenses, but ignoring it. It was better than nothing.

Seeing didn't really help him establish where he was. He was sure now that he was in a basement, a pretty small one. He saw some stairs that lead to a door that he really didn't feel like climbing with his headache, but he knew he had to. He grabbed one of the pipes on the walls and pulled himself up, instantly feeling light headed. Munch fell forward and caught himself with his hand on the concrete floor. "Shit!" he said loudly, and was surprised to hear something shuffling around the room.

He managed to sit up and, still a little dizzy, called, "Who's there?"

There was no answer, but the shuffling increased. He listened hard, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It stopped. He called again. "Who's there? Come out! I'm a police officer!"

The shuffling resumed, and Munch zeroed his gaze under the stairs. He saw something moving under there. Too small to be an adult or a teenager. He picked himself up, slower this time, and leaned against the wall to adjust to the dizzyness. When it had mostly subsided, he took a step towards the stairs. The shuffling sound increased. When he got to the stairs, he looked under them.

Two wide eyes stared at him and a small mouth was open, but no sound was made. The girl was tiny, she looked only about seven or eight and skinny for her age. He recognized the wide grey eyes and braided black hair, although the braid was substantially more messy than when he'd seen a picture of it. Her jean overalls were torn at the knees and side, and she wasn't wearing a shirt under them. Munch knew this girl. She was the girl the SVU had been looking for for over a week.

"Bethany? Are you Bethany Owens?" The girl just stared at him and shivered, pushing herself farther into the corner with her bare feet. _Well, I know where the shuffling came from then_, he thought. "Listen, Bethany, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a police detective. We've been looking for you for a long time."

The girl continued to stare with her mouth open, but the shuffling decreased a bit. She was obviously shivering. It was freezing down there, and her with no shirt. There was something he was supposed to remember about this girl... but the bump on his head was stopping him from remembering it. He rubbed the back of his head and sat down, leaning against the wall. He looked sideways at her and smiled as best he could. "I'm here to help you, Bethany. I'm not going to hurt you."

The shuffling stopped, but she stayed as far away from his as possible. There was something he knew about her... something... but he couldn't remember. Something the mother had told him when she came in crying that her little girl had been snatched. Something...

He shook his head, trying to jog his memory, and regretted it instantly, as it brought the pain throbbing into his head. He looked at Bethany, and felt sick with her shivering like that. Slowly, painstakingly, he took off his jacket and handed it to her. She just looked from the jacket to Munch, and back to the jacket again.

"It's okay, Bethany," he said, soothingly. "You can wear my jacket. It'll make you warmer."

She looked at him for a few more seconds and then snatched the jacket as though he was going to take it away from her at any moment. She pulled it over herself like a blanket and continued to watch him. He tried to smile at her, but couldn't manage it for very long. He was so tired and his head hurt so much... and all she did was watch him as he drifted off... he was almost asleep... he just wanted to sleep...

And then it hit him like a lightning bolt. The thing he was supposed to remember about eight-year-old Bethany Owens just shot into his mind. He had asked his mother if the girl had yelled or anything when the man grabbed her, and Mrs. Owens said, "No. Bethany couldn't yell if she tried. She's never spoken a word in her life. She's mute."

He turned his head ever so slowly to look at Bethany crouching there under the stairs with his jacket over her. "I'm sorry, Bethany," he said softly, so softly that he wasn't sure if she even heard him, or if he even said anything at all. "I'm sorry..."

And he finally did drift into sleep.

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A/N: Tell me what you think! I hope you guys like it... but if not, tell me what you do think! o.O 


	2. Dreaming

A/N: This is a pretty ordinary chapter so I only have one thing to ask of you, and I would be really grateful if you could! I don't have spell check or an SVU beta, so if you guys find a word that's spelled wrong, if you could tell me what the word is, and kinda where the word is (just what I'm writing about at the time) that would be completely splendiforous of you! Thank you so much for all of your encouraging reviews, I take all of them to heart. I hope you like this chapter, and don't forget to send me some lovin' or hatin' or anything in between!

Love from Scribs_

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Chapter Two: Dreaming_

The case had started almost two weeks before. Munch had been sitting at his desk. He should have been filing paperwork; he wasn't. He was leaning back in his chair and tapping a pencil against his lips, staring at the empty desk across from him. Fin had called in sick that morning. Although Munch doubted his sincerity, he was willing to allow his partner a bit of slack, as he hardly ever took off work. Not that Munch would have had a say in the matter; Fin didn't listen to him anyway.

Munch was instantly attentive as a woman ran into the precinct, frantic. She was middle aged and relatively attractive in a soccer-mom kind of way. Her hair was blonde and permed. Her lipsticked mouth opened and closed periodically as if she wasn't sure if she should scream or not, and her mascara bled slightly from tears she was trying to hide. Clung to her side was a large purse. She wore khakis, a red sweater, and simplistic pieces of jewelry. Munch was at her side in a flash, directing her to a seat, trying to make her comfortable.

_She certainly doesn't look like a rape victim_, Munch thought, berating himself for it afterwards. He knew he had a point because her clothes weren't ripped or dirty, and she had no defensive marks, but he shouldn't stereotype. The rape could have happened a while ago, he decided, and gave her his full attention.

"Ma'am, I'm Detective John Munch. Can you tell me your name?" he asked, settling her into a chair by his desk.

"My name," she began, but had to stop and compose herself. She took a deep breath and continued. "My name is Armelle Owens. I went to the police department, they told me to come here. I... my daughter. She's only eight."

"What's your daughter's name?"

"Bethany. She's this little tiny thing. So small and helpless..."

"Can you tell me what happened?" he said, using the most gentle tone possible.

"I took her to the park," she said in what sounded half way between a sob and a choke. "She wanted to swing. She wanted to try by herself. I walked to the bench to sit down and... I only turned my back for a second!"

"I know," he said, even though he didn't. He didn't have kids, thank God, and he had no idea what it was like to raise them. But Lord knew that he'd heard that saying all the time. It was a favorite with the parents that came in to SVU. Only for a second...

"When I turned around she was gone!" she wailed, letting the tears flow freely into her hands. Munch had prepared himself for such, but it was still hard to deal with. Everything was hard to deal with nowadays.

"Did you notice anyone suspicious?" he asked.

"Well, I heard a c-car door slam a little ways off," she answered as calmly as was possible with her face buried in her hands. "There was a man, driving a... a sedan. Four door I think, it might have been two... he drove away really quickly when I looked towards the noise. The car was close by..."

"Could you identify this man?"

"If I ever saw him again, I think... I think I could."

"Could you describe him to a sketch artist?"

Armelle Owens just stared at him for a moment. "I don't... I don't know."

"What about the car? What color was it?"

"It was... tan I think? Or grey. Maybe white but dirty. I-I don't..."

"That's all right, Mrs. Owens," Munch said, wishing he had asked if she was married or not. He seemed to have gotten the right title however, as she did nothing to correct it. "This is not your fault."

That was another term he heard a lot these days. He said it a lot too. It was protocol. Make sure the victims know it's not their fault... as if they'd ever believe him.

"I should have been watching more closely!" This time he let the woman sob. Better to find something to take her mind from it, to make her think she was helping, than to try and assuage her feelings.

"Do you have a recent photo of Bethany?" he asked. She shook her head, sniffing and sobbing.

"No, b-but my husband should have one in his wallet... Oh, her father! I haven't called him yet..."

"What is her father's name?"

"Rick. Richard Owens. He works... he's a business consultant... He's never going to forgive me for this!"

"Mrs. Owens, don't worry. We're going to find her... We're going to find her..."

Munch awoke with a start. His head still ached and so did his back now. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but there was a lot more light streaming through the windows now. Instinctively, he checked his wrist for the time, but there was no watch. Whoever had put him there had taken that too. He wished he could remember something, anything from that day, but he could barely remember what city he was in. It was a good thing he had dreamed about his talk with Mrs. Owens, or he wouldn't have remembered that at all.

He slowly shifted his head to look under the stairs. Bethany Owens still sat there, staring at him. She didn't look like she had moved or fallen asleep. She was just there, staring, eyes wide and scared, huddled under his coat. He smiled tenatively at her, trying to seem stronger than he felt.

Bethany's muscles tensed as his mouth twitched. Munch made no movement toward her. He didn't want to scare the little thing, but it didn't look like he had much choice in the matter; she was scared out of her mind already. He sighed and said quietly, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."

_Some help I am_, Munch thought bitterly. _I need just as much help as she does_.

He almost had a heart attack as the door at the top of the steps creaked open. A stream off too-bright light slowly widened as the doorway was revealed. A shadow stepped into the light, shaped like a distorted person. Munch heard a creak as the shadow walked onto the first step. The phantom stepped on another before Munch could see his shoes. The ghoulish creature turned slowly into a man as he walked downward, steps creaking and light bouncing spookily off the window panes. Munch looked at Bethany. She was no more than a shivering mass, hiding under his coat with half of a foot sticking out from the bottom. Munch gritted his teeth.

The man had gotten all the way down the stairs now. He was surprisingly not bad looking, but not remarkably good-looking either; medium height and build with dark hair, high cheekbones, and rusty brown eyes that were unnaturally devoid of highlights. Even without the highlights, they still managed to glint with emotion. Surprisingly, it wasn't maliciousness that most kidnappers' and rapists' eyes contained by the time they got to Munch. No, as he looked at Munch he seemed eager and... _gleeful_. This was the side of psychopaths that most people never got to see, the part of them that only came out during the hunt...

"Ah," said the man in a chillingly calm, almost normal voice. "Detective. You're awake."

The way he said it made John wish he was still dreaming.


	3. Weaknesses

_Chapter Three: Weakness_

Munch's stomach did a flip-flop. His expression, however, turned into a cynical sneer. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. The man raised an amused eybrow that complimented his smirk with a sadistic effect.

"Strong words for a man that can't stand up, Detective Munch," the man said, sounding as if he was speaking to a small child. Munch glared.

"I know criminals are thick, but I would have assumed you'd know I was asking your name," he clarified, using the same condescending tone. It didn't even ruffle the man's feathers.

He began to pace with his hands behind his back like a scholarly college professor. Munch got the distinct impression that his captor had a flare for the dramatic, and resisted the desire to roll his eyes when the man finally spoke.

"Me? I have many names from many people," he said. "You, however, shouldn't call me anything, I think. After all, it's not as though you'll live long enough to tell anyone my name."

And that's when Munch's smart-ass gene kicked in. Here he was, with a concussion, at the mercy of a psychopath, and he decided to be sarcastic. This happened to him a lot in his life. He always knew it would be better to be quiet, but instead he said something that got him into trouble.

"I know you're used to scaring eight-year-olds," John said, "so I'll cut you a little slack, but do you really think this little charade of superiority is going to scare me? Please. I've seen better acting in a Schwarzenegger movie."

The man stepped forward and backhanded him in one fluid motion. Munch yelped and clutched his head, feeling like a boulder had just been dropped on it. His captor knelt down beside him, his face as close to John's as possible without actually touching him.

"Anything else you want to tell me, Detective."

Munch just glared. The man smiled an evil sort of smile.

"You amuse me, Detective Munch. John, isn't it? No, you don't like it when I call you by your first name, do you? Johnathon is it, then? Or Johnny perhaps?" Munch's head was throbbing; he was barely paying attention. He just wanted the pain to go away. If only the man would stop talking to loudly in his ear... "I think we'll just stick with Detective for now, how's that? Wouldn't want to get too casual, now would we? No, no, Detective will do."

Munch's eyes were closed, trying to drown out the voice and stop the pain. Stopping the pain, that was all that mattered. If the pain stopped, he'd be able to do something. Help. He needed to help.

Suddenly it felt like the man was even closer to him. "You know why you amuse me, Detective."

Munch didn't give an answer. The pain was all that mattered.

"It's because, of course, you intrigue me. I like to be intrigued."

This caught Munch's interest. Instead of a child, he was talking about John like he was an animal in a zoo that had been previously thought to be extinct. He opened one eye a crack. "I _intrigue_ you?"

"Ah, that got his attention, didn't it?" Munch was getting really sick of the rhetorical questions. "Yes, Detective, you intrigue me. You see, I've been watching you for a while now, and I can't seem to find a... method to your madness, if you will. I don't know what makes you tick, Detective Munch. I like to know how people work."

"I'm not a robot," John said. "I don't 'work' or 'tick."

The man just looked skeptical, then moved on. "I'd like to know exactly what goes on inside your head, Detective. And I think I've figured something out."

"Oh, dear," Munch said. "You've found out about my undying love for Barbra Streisand."

The man pretended not to hear. Instead his eyes travelled slowly under the stairs. Munch followed them with his own. They lingered on the rounnd eyes staring at them in fearful interest. Realization dawned on Munch, and his eyes whipped back to the man. "Don't," he warned.

"I've found your weakness, Detective."

"Don't."

"I'm going to torture you, John Munch."

"Then torture me," he said. "Not her. Don't touch her."

"But you're SVU. Sex crimes. You deal with rape. What better way to torture an SVU detective than by committing rape right underneath his nose?" The man's eyes may have been brown, but they were steely, glinting like ice and something far more evil than Munch could imagine.

"You're going to scar a little girl to get to me? Why not just kill me?"

"Because, Detective," he said. "You intrigue me. I thought we had gone over this."

The man stood up, so painstakingly slowly that Munch almost screamed. He took his time walking over to Bethany, giving Munch a little time to bring himself to his feet. "Don't touch her!" he yelled. "Don't go near her!"

"Or what?" The man laughed bitterly. "You'll sarcasm me to death?"

As the man reached for Bethany, Munch grabbed his arm, a desperate attempt to stop him. The man swung his other arm almost lazily into Munch's stomach, knocking him flat and clutching his winded midriff. The man clucked his tongue looking at him. Munch raged.

He pulled Bethany from under the stairs by her wrist. She flailed her arms and legs around. He picked her up roughly and threw her over his shoulder. She looked at Munch writhing on the floor as the man climbed the stairs and she beat his shoulders with her tiny fists. Her eyes screamed at him, spilling all the fear and confusion to him that her voice couldn't.

At the top of the stairs, the man paused, easily holding the little girl at bay. He looked over his shoulder almost non-chalantly. _Bastard!_ Munch screamed at him in his head. The man gave a crooked sort of smile and said, "You know, Detective, you might want to check your choice of words and decide who should be ordering whom."

With that, he left John cursing on the ground of the mysterious and lonely basement.

* * *

This guy was smart. There was no denying that. Throughout the entire case there had been nothing but dead ends and witnesses that didn't really see anything. They'd had one strong lead; an old baby-sitter named Marcus that Mrs. Owens had been forced to fire for stealing money from her purse. But it turned out that he had died a week before the kidnapping of a drug overdose, so they were back to square one.

Elliot was particulary broken up about it. He always was with the child cases. He was also upset because he wasn't the lead and Munch was. Elliot liked to be able to bark orders at people when he was upset, something of which Munch never begrudged him until it wasn't his case. When Munch reminded him of that simple fact, Elliot had just leered at him as if saying, _Yeah, right. I'm gonna be the one to break this case. Face it._ It was one of the only things that annoyed Munch about Elliot. He was always right in his own mind.

Munch and Fin canvassed the park and the near-by apartment buildings, looking for someone who had seen anything unfamiliar. He remembered knocking on doors and getting concern, anger, and even one person who thought they were cat-sitters and wouldn't shut up so they could explain themselves for almost fifteen minutes. Fin had to act the tough guy and take out his badge, saying things like, "Look, man, we have a job to do, so if you don't mind shuttin' your ass up for a minute so me and my partner can ask you a few questions..."

When they left the apartment, Munch rounded on him. "What was that, Fin?"

"What was what?"

"You enjoy being portrayed as the angry black man, don't you?" It wasn't often that he lost his temper with Fin, and he should have known it could only lead to a long and drawn-out argument; but that day was his designated stupid day. He was allowed his dumb mistakes.

"What the hell, Munch?" Fin demanded.

"Come on, he was a senile old man, Fin, you didn't have to scare him half to death with your badge and your ebonics-"

"Ebonics?" Fin repeated, too surprised to sound angry. "I'm sorry if that's the way I talk. Would an accent be better for you?"

Munch instantly felt guilty. "Sorry. But really, he was just confused, that's all."

"He was annoying me."

"Is that a crime now?"

"Course not. You see me arrest him?"

"Shut up, Fin," John snapped.

"You're just mad because he's old and so are you."

Munch snorted. "That's low."

"And you talkin' about me as the 'angry black man' isn't?" Munch looked straight ahead of him as the walked down the stairs, carefully avoiding Fin's intense glare.

"I'm just upset about this case, Fin. I didn't mean anything."

"You're upset by every case, but you don't start labelling me on all of them," Fin noted. "You know what I think."

"Please, tell me your wisdom, oh Great Oracle." Fin blatantly ignored him.

"I think you're upset that you're getting old. You're turning obsolete. I saw you when Elliot tried to take over the case in the squad room yesterday. You 'bout killed him."

"He wasn't taking over the case."

"He said he was going to canvas. What do you call it?"

"Volunteering."

"That's not what you called it then," Fin said. "You were pissed and you know it."

"Cragen agreed with me," Munch muttered, resentfully. Fin rolled his eyes.

"I'm not saying you weren't justified," he said, "but you don't have to take Elliot's ego trip out on me, okay?"

They were approaching the next apartment, so Munch decided to end the argument. "Okay. Sorry. But if this is an old guy, don't scare him, all right?"

"Now, wait," Fin teased, grinning slightly, "did I scare the old guy, or you?"

"Shut up, Fin."

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A/N: The next chapter should be up pretty soon. I've been working on this one really hard, so if anything's wrong with it, be sure to tell me so I know what to fix! You guys are AWESOME reviewers!

Much love,  
Scribs


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